December 10, 1968
by ilurandir
Summary: December 10, 1968  and what happened before. Please read and reviw.


Chris opened his eyes. It was light enough to see by, and he wondered if it had just been a few minutes, or if it was dawn already.

"Paul?" he asked quietly. He slowly became aware of Paul's chest against his back, his arm draped over Chris's narrow waist. But Paul was asleep. Chris closed his eyes again, but like a wave, like vertigo, the comfort of that warm body so close to him – that physical forgiveness that Chris never felt like he deserved – was too much for him.

The pressure of Paul's arm, the hand lightly touching his stomach, Paul's heart beating against his back, it _hurt_. Physically… not just in his head. It wasn't like Paul, when he wrapped his arms around Chris's back after Chris has shouted at him. The continual forgiveness that always made Chris feel sick. Feel like crying.

He got up as fast as he could without waking him; feeling the room pitch to the left, feeling the horrible sick feeling in his stomach. He needed a hit. A whine escaped him because, _ugh_ his skin was crawling like bugs, but it hurt to brush them away. He stumbled, one foot catching the ankle of the other one, but he caught himself. Out in the hallway, it was like he was watching himself from some disembodied pair of eyes. He didn't remember the familiar walk from Paul's room to the bathroom, didn't see his own hands when he went through one of the bottom drawers, syringe, tie, spoon, cotton. He dug the heroin out of the pocket of his dark jeans, his pack of fags, struggling to get the lighter out, dropping the pack to the floor.

He watched himself shake as he went through all the motions of preparing the drug for the vein.

Syringe full, tie around his arm he backed up into the door because he knew the lock didn't always work, and a part of him _liked_ keeping this habit as a filthy secret, even though he knew that everyone knew that he did it. He never liked shooting up in front of people… it used to be different with Paul.

Before it was oddly erotic to him, to shoot up with Paul watching him, but Chris never liked to see Paul do it… at the same time, he felt such a fucking _connection_ when he stood so close to him, when he pushed the needle into those scarred arms and placed his mouth over Paul's as he shot the Junk home.

He liked to feel Paul's breath change against his mouth and sit with him on the cold floor. He liked to watch how dark Paul's eyes got as the heroin took over completely.

He hated that he liked it.

He watched himself, still somehow outside of his body, as he slid the needle into the vein and suddenly he was seeing everything from his own eyes again. Everything blinked into crystal clear focus. He found his reflection in the mirror, needle in his arm, hair mussed with sleep, eyes dark, staring out at him. He didn't recognise himself, but then, he never really had.

"Fuck you. _Fuck_ you." He said, his mouth twisted in hatred. A violent jolt in his arms as he pushed the drug into his body too fast. Nausea hit him and he looked away, then. Slid to the floor, shuddering,

He didn't know how long he sat on that floor, legs cramping, too long for the narrow room before he pulled in a breath as though he hadn't taken one in a long time, and pushed himself up, grabbing his fags, his lighter, pushing them back into his pocket. He put everything else back in the drawer.

The hallway was glowing dimly, the sky pure white outside the window. It gave the impression of softness and harshness at the same time, the skin of his hands too white.

He closed Paul's door softly behind him, hand in his pocket, graceful fingers extracting his cigarettes – always slower, more careful after the Junk. Sometimes, he thought, it might make him beautiful.

He pushed the chair aside and placed the pack quietly on the bedside table before he sat down, crosslegged on the bed, smoking quietly as he looked at Paul.

He reached out and brushed his hair back from his forehead and smiled a little. "I don't deserve you," he said lowly, his voice breaking a little, just because it was so quiet. Not quite a whisper. It didn't upset him to say it, because he was always upset about it. It was no different than before. What would have hurt him would be to see Paul's expression if he had been awake.

Fag to his lips, Chris tilted his chin up, eyes still on Paul, rubbing Paul's dark hair between his fingers before he smoothed it back again.

He turned away from him, finished his fag, and put it out in the ashtray before he pulled his boots on, never bothering to tie them.

He stood and reached for his fags, then hesitated, fingers running over the cardboard, before pulling away. He didn't need any more right now.

He took the stairs quickly, tripping at the bottom of them and catching himself on the wall. It never phased him unless he was angry… and he wasn't right now.

He felt calmer than he had in months. His head clear.

No one was up yet. It was so early…

He put the kettle on, then left it to boil, wandering through the house. The recording room was very bright, he felt a swoop of excitement in his belly to practice later. He hadn't wanted to sing in such a long time, and the excitement made him smile. He looked at Paul's guitar placed carefully in its stand, the sunlight glinting off of its surface. It had snowed last night, and it hurt his eyes to look outside.

He tore a page out of the notebook he had for lyrics and found the stub of a pencil with the missing eraser… maybe he could finally start on the new songs. The next album was put on hold after his overdose. The thought didn't even give him pause this morning.

He sat down on the couch, nearest Paul's guitar and crossed his legs, leaning over the coffee table, the blank sheet of paper, staring at it as though it would tell him what to put down.

Just then, however, the kettle whistled and he uncrossed his legs quickly, getting up and heading back to the kitchen, placing the paper and pencil on the table as he took the kettle off the heat and turned the stove off. Eyes down, he stepped sideways, and hit his head on the corner of the cupboards. "Fuck," he said to himself, his tone calm but slightly self-deprecating, as though telling himself _you really should know that those cupboards are there by now._

He ducked back, opening the cupboard half-way to get the tea when his eyes fell on his car, out in the drive. He could only see half of it, where he was standing, and there was a thin covering of snow on it. He stood still for several long minutes staring at it, his eyes light grey in the early sunlight, then closed the cupboard, going to the table and sitting down, pulling the paper towards him, picking up the pencil. He had to hold it awkwardly because it was so small.

He knew what to write now.

_Paul I Just Wanted to clear some things cuz we haven't really talked in a while & I wanted to tell you that if I coulda Quit the Junk for you I woudve it was Just getting to __h__ easy for me to fuck up everything…_

Back in the recording room, forgetting about the tea, he put the piece of paper on top of the piano where Paul's sheet music was. He tilted his head, shoulders tilting slightly at the same time as always, staring at it. After a second, he picked it up, scribbled Paul's name on the front of it, and set it back down, along with the pencil, then headed for the door. The rush of air as he turned caught the paper and sent it fluttering down from the piano, lodging somewhere between the chair beside it, and the wall.

Chris reached into his pocket of his coat, hanging on stand in the entry hall and extracted his keys, which caught the light sharply as he opened the door.

The air was cold as he stepped outside and went down the front steps of Humbleden. His boots broke the thin sheet of ice on the gravel as he headed towards his car.

He had remembered a place he could drive to.

**December 10, 1968**


End file.
